Witness

Darkness settles around me.  The snow falls heavy and cold.  I long for the white blanket Grandmother knitted years ago.  People pass: people in fast cars coming home from work and heading into warm kitchens and soup bubbling upon the stove; people walking dogs that pause and sniff at me and occasionally even lift their legs.  Occasionally someone slows and glances at me. 

Mostly, I am ignored.

I am thin.  I am faded.  I am dull. 

I remember how the children used to jump upon my ample lap, eyes shining.  There was always enough room for all of them.  They would spend hours with me, constructing ornate forts out of cushions and quilts or just curled up reading thick books, the cat always close at hand, stretching out lazily in the sunshine slanting through lace curtains.

We watched movies together, while the father read his newspaper, the dog parked beside me.  The dog and I shared a secret: when everyone was out of the house, he, too, jumped upon my lap and curled up with me.

I remember listening to their games and their stories and their silliness.

I remember the laughter.

All these years, I absorbed their spills and their tears and their stories.

And this is the thanks I get.

Someone slows.  Pulls up to the curb.  Stops.

A man and a woman get out of a pickup truck.  “Look at that,” the woman says, shaking her head. 

They go to either side of me.  They take hold of me gently and lift me up.  They carry me to the truck.

“That’s a real shame,” the woman says.  “Throwing away a perfectly good couch.”



This was written in response to a prompt from Write On Edge prompt: This week, tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.